


Loved

by orphan_account



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: A little bit of angst, F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Spoilers for Fallen Hero: Retribution, her puppet is yasmin, listen its complicated. its fluffy mostly, mob boss sidestep, sidesteps name is yvette, specifically the route where you scope out the auction as your puppet, there were no doctor mortum works!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 20:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Post revealing yourself to Dr. Mortum while in a relationship with her as your puppet. Spoilers for Retribution!





	Loved

Yasmin’s head rests on Yvette’s shoulder, watching their now veritable mob roam around them. Her cake barely has two bites taken out of it. It’s hard to decide what’s good or bad and what truths are best kept to herself.

The cake is dense and dry in Yvette’s mouth.

Yasmin is next to her, empty. Lifeless.

The mob didn’t like that either. They saw her face, her base, but the fact that Yasmin was a puppet was a new revelation.

Ace. Ace and the small traces of their mind. Red twelve, sucker.

Nehal and Zaza actively steer away. Pelacoy and Ward act tough, but avoid the two bodies as if the ground is thick with limestone. A sinkhole waiting to happen.

Rosie and Boris are the only ones daring enough to draw near. Even then, it was only to give her dessert.

If Yvette had made a bet on who would know the truth, all of it, it wouldn’t be Dr. Mortum. She doesn’t even know Mortum’s first name. Yasmin, though. Yasmin knows the way her eyes wander when she gets an idea in her head and how her skin feels sticky with sweat.

Yvette shudders and puts the bowl down before she manages to hide her face in her hands.

Half truths. Always the easier lie. A lie rooted in the truth or a different interpretation of it is always more believable. It’s hard to keep track of which is which these days.

Yvette’s hand is far from her phone, but the thought remains the same.

Tell her was the obvious answer.

Their mutual best friend.

She would understand. She would respect them. Yvette and Yasmin.

She doesn’t need to focus to nudge everyone’s thoughts in her direction. An obvious move, one that everyone notices, but accepts the same as if she had just announced that she needed comfort.

Her focus still drifts to the phone. Doctor Mortum, ma chérie, she wants to call for comfort, assurance. Not business. Please, don’t make her wait more.

Zaza’s hand is awkwardly patting her shoulder, Boris merely taking her bowl to put back in the fridge. Rosie and Nehal right next to Yasmin. Rosie is comfortable enough to braid Yvette’s shoulder length hair. Nehal is not so lucky and turns to Ward for assurance. He and Pelayo are halfway across the room. A nudge as gentle as Yvette’s is not enough to make them indulge in this awkward moment.

Still, her focus is only on herself. Mortum’s calloused fingers drifting over orange genetic code printed into her body.

She is human.

She exhales a sigh of relief through her nose. She has her own problems, but love is not one of them.

Yvette takes Boris’ offered coffee with a gratitude she reaches out with instead of in. The mob is used to their nonverbal communication and Boris smiles in return.

It’s easier. Words are cheap. Putting that kind of emotion into someone’s head means it’s real and the group trusts her with their minds.

The mob is obviously reassured and gets back to work. Rosie gives Yvette’s finished braid a pat before fleeing with the rest of them. 

The coffee is only slightly better than the cake. It doesn’t burn the way she wishes it would.

Her phone rings. Rosie doesn’t even get the chance to say goodbye before Yvette is gone. The cup is left on the floor with Yasmin.

“I must admit, I am surprised to see you here instead of…” Mortum trails off, glancing away. What can she say? ‘Instead of yourself?’

Yvette curls up on herself at the words, but only barely. She imagines a heart shaped mask covering her face. Heartbreak, the villain. Only a mirror, a reflection of society.

A heart that Mortum built for her.

“I could be Yasmin, if you prefer.” She tries to be detached, cool, but out of them all Mortum is the one she is closest to. The only one who knows everything. “I feel better with her body as well.”

“No,” Mortum bites out. It’s a strange moment of lividity. Mortum has always been the more level headed of the two of them. Yvette’s hand twitches. She flinches through her hands, now. Before it was telling in the shock of her shoulders and the reflex to get as far away as possible. That has changed.

“No?”

“No. Yasmin was a puppet for you.” Mortum decides, looking her in the eyes. “It is still you. You are just a body I wasn’t expecting.” Her eyes flick down to her wrists, the tattoos, the scars she showed, all hidden beneath a thin layer of white. A neat, business casual shirt.

“An interesting body.” Yvette falters, then. She almost wants to shuck off her clothes and invite the feather light exploration of Mortum’s curiosity. It's not the same as her calloused hands roaming Yasmin’s thighs or the threat of a smile fighting to cut their kiss short.

Yvette stands and unbuttons the top of her shirt. Mortum’s eyes are hungry, roving over the thick orange lines with purpose as Yvette’s breathing picks up. Mortum was her first time in every way that mattered.

It’s not the first time she’s stripped for a scientist, though.

Her hands shake around the second to last button. She’s not sure when ‘elevated breathing’ turned to ‘hyperventilating’, but, to her credit, it's not obvious. Her heart beats like a piece of prey, but it is only inside her chest. The skin is too thick to let even the jump of the hummingbird inside show as Mortum stands.

And politely buttons her shirt.

It takes Yvette staring at the mesmerizing motion twice through before she understands what is happening.

“Why?” She chokes out, grabbing her wrist to make her stop. Didn’t she want to see a real cuckoo? See the scars that masked her skin, how deep a knife could cut before the neon orange tattoos were gone?

Why didn’t she want her?

“Ma chérie.” Mortum sighs, pressing her forehead to Yvette’s. Still short, though not as short as Yasmin. “I will not have you do this for me.”

“There’s a lot of things I could do to you.” Yvette smirks, trying to muster up some of Yasmin’s swagger. Her hands don’t twitch at all as they came to rest over where Mortum’s linger on her buttons.

“No need.”

It feels like a glass of cold water has been dumped over her head as the buttons keep slipping together again, her shirt closed to her collarbone. There’s no need. Mortum doesn’t see a need for them to be together anymore.

“Okay,” the word slips out unbidden, shattered at the edges. She clears her throat, fighting back the need to croak, to have her voice break like a soft teenager. She doesn’t cry. She won’t cry, can’t break down any more. It’s not a choice. She couldn’t force tears if she tried. “Okay.”

“I will find you one of those cookies you love,” Mortum continues, fond, if not worried, as she fixes Yvette’s collar. “And we will discuss this after a movie. How about that cute little cartoon? With the heroes?”

“You don’t care about the Spider Verse.”

“No, I care about you.”

Usually it's Mortum asking for physical contact, but she’s right there and Yvette can’t stand to let her go. If she does, the doctor might think she’s not ready, willing, wanting to be touched. Comforted.

It is not just an act.

Mortum’s arms settle around her shoulders with hesitance. This is not the body she is used to hugging her, but Yvette and Yasmin are the same so she pulls her close and pets her hair as always. It’s shorter than Yasmin’s, so her fingers brush in too long strokes, but it’s easier, too. Yasmin’s hair is kinky, tangled. Pretty, obviously well cared for, but impossible to get through.

Yvette’s hair is loose and wavy once she pulls it from its braid.

It takes only a little coaxing to get Yvette to the couch and even less to hand her a bowl with four chocolate chip cookies carefully stacked. Mortum may not have time to bake, but she always manages to have sweets on hands. Yvette can’t imagine she picks them up herself, maybe sending out a poor, confused guard to grab her baked goods.

The thought draws a small laugh from her, nestling into Mortum’s side and the doctor laughs, too. She’s confused, though, and Yvette snaps up her mind’s shields. Too much projecting. A telepath cannot be free even in their mind. It wouldn’t do to push Mortum’s feelings with her own.

Mortum wraps an arm around her, pulling her closer to her side, though Yvette is sure she has more important things to do. The teleportation gun, the regenerative machine’s assembly if Yvette ever tells her about it…

Her.

The doctor turns on the T.V and then Netflix with little thought. Her mind is calm, worried at the edges, but twists as a seed would instead of a tangle. It's always hard to read her mind, but it's easy to extrapolate the causes.

Vulnerable. Warm. Safe.

It’s not the first time they’ve watched Into the Spider Verse and Yvette can feel Mortum’s mind wander just five minutes in. She smiles to herself, easily standing and maneuvering through the workshop to grab her notebook and a pencil. Mortum’s concern turns to fond exasperation as she accepts the offering and tucks her back into the spot she had been previously. She makes a valiant effort to write with her non-dominant hand before Yvette merely gets up again and switches sides.

It’s nice. The movie doesn’t feel like a time limit and for once Yvette relaxes. They will talk. About herself, about Mortum, and about the regeneration device. It’s just not a big deal. They have time.


End file.
